Until Sunrise
by nightfury153
Summary: Nico can't stand the pain, the fear, the nightmares. He does the only thing he thinks he can do. Cutter!Nico. Oneshot. Trigger warning! Post Blood of Olympus.


" _ **Okay but consider something for a moment: In Percy Jackson's Greek heroes, Eros/Cupid is described as taking on the appearance of viewers ideal man. The Cupid scene from House of Hades is told from Jason's perspective, making Cupid look like your general, run-of-the-mill handsome dude (plus the creepy eyes.) But imagine it from Nico's perspective. Imagine Nico hearing Cupid's words in Percy's voice. Imagine that cruel sneer on Percy's lips, those red eyes on his face. Imagine the despair, the fear, the self hatred Nico felt in that moment seeing everything he wanted and everything he hated all at once"**_

Nico woke up and screamed.

Sweat glistened on his face and his hair stuck to the back of his neck uncomfortably. A broken sob exploded from his chest. He covered his mouth with his hand and pulled the covers around him tighter. Green light from the ever-burning lanterns outside cast ghastly shadows that he usually liked, but now they reminded him of the horrific images he had just seen. A mix of Tartarus and Cupid's visit with Jason.

The vision was seared into his mind: Cupid taking the form of Percy, his red eyes leaving burning holes in Nico's skin, and his maniacal laughter as he spilled his secret. _I had a crush on Percy Jackson. There, happy?_ Percy laughed. _Never._ The world had evaporated into… No. The images were too horrible to describe.

Nico slipped his from his bed and made his way to the small bathroom. A group of shadows in the corner howled as he opened the door, but Nico flicked his wrist and they evaporated. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. At once the tears started flowing. The glass was cracked in several places from where he had taken out his anger and sadness. The bags under his eyes stuck out against his deathly pale skin. His colorless eyes held no emotion. He smacked his fist against the mirror and gave a guttural scream.

 _Stop crying!_

He had to be strong. He couldn't be a baby.

 _Quit crying!_

No weakness. But still the tears flowed. The pain was to intense. He remembered years ago when Percy had told him about Bianca. The overwhelming grief had almost caused him to kill himself. But his only stronghold was the promise of revenge. Now he had a lot of things to live for: His friends on the Argo, Camp Half-blood, Hazel… especially Hazel. The only person who understood what it was like to not be from this time. He remembered every time she had had a blackout. The way he would scream at her to wake up. And when she did, he breathed a sigh of relief.

But Hazel wasn't here. She was at Camp Jupiter with Frank. He couldn't talk to anyone here. He was suffering on his own.

With numb fingers, he opened the cabinet under the sink and pulled out a small blade that was hiding in the corner, about twice as long as his thumbnail. It had been from a light green pencil sharpener. Now it was used for different purposes.

He slowly took off his pajama top, revealing his bare chest. He was scrawny and he hated it. The few muscles he had were spread across his arms, but were barely noticeable. The outlines of a six pack were weakly etched in his skin. And all over his torso, on his arms, his chest, his stomach, were scars. Scars from the last five years that had taken the pain away for minutes. The scars on his arms had almost faded, since they were the first ones there.

He brought that razor up with shaking fingers and placed it gently against his left arm. He closed his eyes and remembered the dream, the way Percy had laughed when he had admitted, the cruel laugh, the one that haunted him _every single night._ The memories from Tartarus, when he had felt pain, both physical and emotional, that almost drove him insane. His days in the jar, when all he could do was sit in the pain. When he opened his eyes, there were three clean cuts across his forearm. Blood dripped steadily down onto his palm and into the sink.

Before he even realized it, his whole arm, from his arm to his wrist, was a gruesome mess. The criss-crossed, jaggedy lines and the smooth ones were indistinguishable. And with each drop of blood that spattered against the white ceramic sink, a tiny part of his pain evaporated. He let the razor fall from his blood-covered fingers onto the counter and collapsed backwards, against a wall. His head lolled against his chest, and he stayed that way until sunrise.

Nico groggily lifted his head as a loud trumpet echoed across the valley, alerting the campers that they had half an hour until breakfast. Using his good hand, he pushed himself up and looked in the mirror. His skin was almost translucent, the veins more pronounced than ever. His whole body shook and his heart pounded. Nico opened the cabinet and put the razor back in its usual place. He took a rattling breath and pulled out a bottle of iron supplements that he had stolen from a Wal-mart about a year ago. He was running low. He shook three into his hand and swallowed them without water. The bitter taste marked his tongue.

He pulled a rag out of the cabinet and wetted it under the tap, and got to work scrubbing the counter and floor. Even the wall had streaks of red on it. He had to stop every few minutes because he would be out of breath. When every bit of blood was wiped up, he rinsed the rag and threw it in the garbage. It was to dirty to reuse, anyways. He hadn't cut this much since… he didn't even know.

He stumbled to the shower and washed the blood off himself, being extra careful not to rub too hard on his arm, incase he opened the fragile cuts. He examined it, taking in the fresh, red marks decorating his arm. Then, with much reluctance, shut off the water and dried himself off. His signature black jeans were crumpled in the corner from last evening when he had changed. He pulled them on and walked out of the bathroom, and grabbed yesterday's shirt that was crumpled beside his bed. The trumpet sounded again. Five minutes.

He slipped into a pair of converse and grabbed his aviator jacket that hung on a hook beside the door. He winced as the sleeve grazed his arm. Then, as almost a last thought, he hooked his sheath around his waist and walked out.

When he got to the dining pavilion, Chiron greeted him warmly.

"Good morning, Nico. Did you sleep well?"

Nico looked up at him and thought back to last night. Then, he said, "Wonderfully."

 _ **I'm a horrible person. I'm sorry. But I saw this art of Nico with scars and I just had to!**_ _**Kill me if you will. I just love angst. The quote at the top is from Instagram.**_


End file.
